CURIOUS READERS, The occupation of writing eclogues, at a time when poetry is generally regarded with such little favour, will not, I fancy, be counted as so praiseworthy a pursuit, but that it may be necessary especially to justify it to those who, following the varying tastes of their natural inclination, esteem every taste differing from it as time and labour lost. But since it concerns no man to justify himself to intellects that shut themselves up within bounds so narrow, I desire only to reply to those who, being free from passion, are moved, with greater reason, not to admit any varieties of popular poetry, believing that those who deal with it in this age are moved to publish their writings on slight consideration, carried away by the force which passion for their own compositions is wont to have on the authors. So far as this is concerned, I can urge for my part the inclination I have always had for poetry, and my years, which, having scarcely passed the bounds of youth, seem to permit pursuits of the kind. Besides, it cannot be denied that studies in this art (in former times so highly esteemed and rightly) carry with them no inconsiderable advantages: such as enriching the poet (as regards his native tongue); and acquiring a mastery over the tricks of eloquence comprised in it, for enterprises that are loftier and of greater import; and opening a way so that the narrow souls that wish the copiousness of the Castilian tongue to be checked by the conciseness of the ancient speech, may, in imitation of him, understand that it offers a field open, easy, and spacious, which they can freely traverse with ease and sweetness, with gravity and eloquence, discovering the variety of acute, subtle, weighty, and elevated thoughts, which, such is the fertility of Spanish men of genius, Heaven's favourable influence has produced with such profit in different parts, and every hour is producing in this happy age of ours, whereof I can be a sure witness, for I know some men who, with justice and without the impediment I suffer, could safely cover so dangerous a course. But so common and so diverse are men's difficulties, and so various their aims and actions, that some, in desire of glory, venture, others, in fear of disgrace, do not dare, to publish that which, once disclosed, must needs endure the uncertain, and well-nigh always mistaken, judgment of the people. I have BY LUIS GÁLVEZ DE MONTALVO. TO THE AUTHOR. SONNET. What time thy neck and shoulders thou didst place, Submissive, 'neath the Saracenic yoke, And didst uphold, with constancy unbroke Amidst thy bonds, thy faith in God's own grace, Heaven rejoiced, but earth was for a space, Without thee, well-nigh widowed: desolate, Filled with lament and sadness for thy state, Was left the Muses' royal dwelling-place. But since that, from amidst the heathen host, Which kept thee close, thy manly soul and tongue Thou didst unto thy native land restore, Heaven itself of thy bright worth makes boast, The world greets thy return with happy song, And the lost Muses Spain receives once more. BY DON LUIS DE VARGAS MANRIQUE. SONNET. In thee the sovran gods their mighty power, Mighty Cervantes, to the world declared. Nature, the first of all, for thee prepared Of her immortal gifts a lavish store: Jove did his lightning on his servant pour, The living word that moves the rocky wall: That thou in purity of style mightst all With ease excel, Diana gave her dower: Mercury taught thee histories to weave: The strength Mars gave thee that doth nerve thine arm: Cupid and Venus all their loves bestowed: 'Twas from Apollo that thou didst receive Concerted song: from the Nine Sisters charm And wisdom: shepherds from the woodland god. BY LÓPEZ MALDONADO. SONNET. Out from the sea they issue and return Unto its bosom when their course is o'er, As to the All-Mother they return once more, The children who have left her long forlorn. She is not lesser made whene'er they go, Nor prouder when their presence they restore; For she remaineth whole from shore to shore, And with her waters aye her pools o'erflow. Thou art the sea, oh Galatea fair! The rivers are thy praises, the reward Whereby thou winnest immortality. The more thou givest to us, thou canst spare The more; though all before thy feet have poured Their tribute, yet thou canst not greater be. GALATEA. |